She found she missed the black tactical pants he’d been wearing this morning on her sofa. Instead, in his charcoal tux, crisp white shirt, and bowtie, he somehow looked both more formal and more dangerous. Very James Bond. The scar near his temple caught the light when he turned his head, a thin pale line against tanned skin.
He wasn’t smiling. Of course he wasn’t. His expression was neutral, watchful, the kind of calm that made people underestimate how quickly he could move if something went wrong. He crossed the remaining distance, weaving through donors and staff with the ease of someone who’d spent years reading crowds instead of joining them.
“There you are,” he murmured when he reached her, voice low enough that it belonged only to the space between them.
“Miss me?” she teased, allowing herself to slip into this charade they were playing. If she told herself she was playing a character, perhaps her heart wouldn’t fall for the act.
“Always,” he replied immediately, his words making her stomach dip.
Or perhaps her heart was just as foolish as the rest of her.
A passing waiter offered flutes of champagne. Norah took one because that’s what this version of her did. Marshall didn’t.
“Stephen’s online,” he said quietly. “Earpiece comms are stable. I’ve done a full circuit. Security’s tight, but not paranoid.”
Of course. Operation first. Feelings . . . never.
She nodded, pretending that steadied her. “Any familiar faces?”
“Too many.” His gaze flicked past her shoulder, cataloging. “Morris’s donor liaison. Two lobbyists we flagged last year for laundering campaign funds through shell NGOs. Derulo. Collins.”
The last two names came out flatter. Marshall’s disdain of the people behind the names was obvious. To her at least.
“Anyone from Summit?” she asked.
“Besides you and Hale?” His jaw moved once. “A couple of mid-tier partners. Nobody else from your level.”
The implication was clear to her. Hale hadn’t just invited her because she was useful. He’d elevated her. Put her in a room she wasn’t expected to occupy.
The thought made her stomach twist.
He offered his arm. Professional escort. Pretend boyfriend. Human shield. She wasn’t entirely sure which part of him she was taking when she slipped her hand through.
She felt the tension in his muscles anyway.
Norah felt eyes on them. The lie she’d told Morris’s aide—the imaginary boyfriend—suddenly felt a lot less imaginary. Beside her, she knew Marshall was cataloging exits, cameras, and security details. She could practically feel him mapping the room in his head.
“Relax your shoulders,” he said under his breath, voice a rumble right against her ear. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”
“I’m walking through a room where people who move markets and maybe governments talk shop over crab cakes. I think bolting would be reasonable. Let’s do that.”
His thumb brushed once, briefly, against the back of her hand where it rested on his arm. The touch was gone before she could decide if she’d imagined it.
“You’re the smartest person in here,” he said. “They should be nervous, not you.”
Her throat tightened. The words shouldn’t have mattered, but they did.
They made their way toward the preferred tables near the stage. Norah smiled when she was supposed to, answered safely vague questions about Summit’s market outlook, let her brain run two tracks at once. One for the small talk, one for the numbers she’d seen and the notebook she’d lost.
They met up with Hale again at the front of the stage. She felt Marshall’s presence a half-step behind her the whole time. Close enough that if she shifted, her shoulder would brush his. Far enough that she could almost pretend he wasn’t there.
Until the music slowed.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the host called, “before the Senator joins us, we invite you to the floor. This is, after all, a celebration.”
People drifted toward the center, couples forming naturally. Norah stayed rooted by her chair.
“You should dance,” Hale said lightly, already looking to intercept a passing lobbyist. “We’ll regroup before the speech.”
